


Alternatives to Leave-taking

by stonelions



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:59:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonelions/pseuds/stonelions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen has been holding on to an idea for some time, and he finally has a quiet opportunity to bring it up. Set after the conclusion of the main game but long before the events of Trespasser, in the Cold Hands, Warm Heart 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternatives to Leave-taking

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [COLD HANDS, WARM HEART](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189986) by [spicyshimmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy), [stonelions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonelions/pseuds/stonelions). 



> I've debated posting this for ages, but I still think it's kinda cute so...uh, here it is. ([Let Sleeping Dogs Lie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3282161) is set after this, and both pieces are pretty canon-divergent since they were written prior to Trespasser's existence. This whole au operates on a slightly different timeline than the canon one.)

It was growing too dark to read by the natural light from the window. Cullen sighed and closed his book: a long-winded treatise regarding farming methods that he thought might prove enlightening for future endeavors. To say the material was dry would be a gross understatement, but nonetheless, it was important. Or could be someday, if his plans for the coming years came to fruition.

As the Inquisition wound down from its battle for the world’s fate, Cullen was considering his own future more frequently and with somewhat less trepidation than expected, given that his entire life had been dedicated to causes beyond himself. The Inquisition remained an overwhelming power in Thedas: an army thousands strong that boasted support from every corner of the continent, and it would not disband any time soon. Unmistakably, there were still soldiers to lead and causes to fight for, but circumstance had intervened to provide him time to reconsider his place.

Of all the things he’d expected to die from—an errant blade, or well-timed spell, dagger in the side from a rogue he never saw coming, even a hail of arrows that bypassed his armor—of all those, a cough was the last he’d imagined. In the middle of a war such trifling infirmity hardly crossed a soldier’s mind. It seemed so minute and ridiculous as to be impossible. As it turned out, a severe infection of the lungs was not only a possible way to die, but in his case, dangerously close to a probable one. Surviving such an illness did give one fresh perspective.

The unfortunate truth was that the demands of his role as general—fights that led to wounds, training sessions with clumsy green recruits, constant late hours, working to exhaustion day after day—left the body weak and vulnerable when the battle was won.

And they had won. A victory for the ages achieved within a miniscule window, in the grand scheme of time. Nearly three years of battle on a variety of fronts. Trade routes forged and lost, several once noble families brought to ruin while others rose in their place, alliances cemented and enemies conquered across Ferelden and Orlais. All in the name of the Inquisition. All to save the world.

The sky had calmed once more. There would still be petty infighting that might escalate, and several land squabbles were already underway, but that was life. People. The age old clash of greed with civility.

He let his head rest on the back of his chair. A log split in the fireplace, giving a loud crack before it settled in a shower of orange sparks. It would need to be rebuilt soon in order to keep burning.

Cullen started to unravel himself from the blanket he was wrapped in and he was about to stand when the door opened with a thunk.

There was a series of scuffing noises, items being set on a sideboard, and a tut-tut. “Don’t you dare,” Dorian said, planting a hand on Cullen’s shoulder to keep him seated. “I’ll see to it, you sit. Quietly. Not a word about how fine you are because it’s a filthy lie.” He walked around the chair and wrapped the blanket tightly about Cullen. “Cover your chest, please. Honestly.”    

“I’m wearing a sweater.” Cullen glanced down at himself to make sure he was, in fact, wearing one. He’d been delirious early on in the illness, and had accidentally left his quarters without boots.

If he recalled correctly, that was the specific incident that had inspired Dorian to drag him to the infirmary.  

After he’d put on his boots for him.

“Layers, Cullen, layers,” Dorian scolded. “You’re the one who taught me that, remember?” He crouched in front of the fireplace and went at it with a poker before adding a new block of wood. “There, that should keep you for another hour or two. Ah!” He disappeared behind Cullen’s chair again and reappeared with a steaming mug and a strange, oddly weighted square of cloth. “These are for you.”

Cullen accepted the mug. Cider, by the smell of it, and nicely spiced at that. “Mm. Thank you for the drink, and uh...” he stared at the cloth object still in Dorian’s hand, “whatever that is.”

“You look at it as though it’s some sinister torture device but I assure you, it’s merely a bean bag. Before you and I took up together I slept with one in my bed almost every night in the interest of keeping my extremities. You heat them and they stay that way a while, it’s very pleasant.” Dorian set the thing on Cullen’s sternum, and the warmth radiated through the rough wool of his blanket.

The weight of it reminded him of the barn cats back home, when he was a boy, how they’d come in on the cold nights to huddle near you and purr.

It was soothing. “Thank you,” he repeated.

Dorian sat down on the arm of the chair and ran his fingers over Cullen’s scalp. “Well, you’re less clammy than you have been, so I’ll take that as a sign of improvement.” He leaned in and nosed the side of Cullen’s head. “How are you feeling, Amatus?”

“Restless,” Cullen said. “There’s still so much to be done, and I—

“Ah ah, none of that. There will be no talk of work so long as you’re in my quarters, remember? We had an agreement. Now, how are you feeling _physically_? Is your body still trying to forcibly eject your lungs?”

Cullen took a breath, ready to protest, then sighed. “Only twice today, so far.” The coughing fits were unpleasant, but definitely fewer and less intense than they had been. His breathing was easier, too.

“A new record.” Dorian peered past Cullen to the side table, where he’d set down his book. “Are you truly whiling away your restful hours reading about soil composition?” His deft fingers snapped the book up and he flipped through it, skimming several pages. “Hmm. These charts are woefully outdated. If you intend to retire to a quiet life of rooting around in the dirt it might serve to read a text written in our current century.”

Cullen sipped his cider. “I doubt the recipes for pickling vegetables have changed much in the past hundred years.”

The chair creaked as Dorian leaned over again and let the book hit the table with a small whap. “True, I suppose. Once you Fereldens figure out one way to do something, you _do_ tend to stick with it past the point of all reason. Stubborn lot, though living in this climate you’d have to be. Planning on doing a lot of pickling, are you?”

“I might be,” Cullen said. He raised an eyebrow at Dorian. “What better way to pass the time in my dotage?”

“I can think of a few. That is to say, doing almost anything else would be better,” Dorian replied. “And you’ve hardly entered your dotage. You’ve got another good...three, five years to go, maybe.”

Cullen elbowed him in the thigh.

“Retaliation! You are feeling better, I’m delighted.” Dorian ruffled the hair on Cullen’s nape, which was getting a bit long the past few weeks. “Now drink your cider, old fellow.” He stood up and straightened out his clothes. “What’s your opinion on solid food today, do you think you can manage or shall I fetch your usual bowl of soup?”   

“The usual, please,” Cullen said. He’d been eating supper early and sleeping soon after, and though he often still woke at sunrise, it merely meant he got to spend time lying in bed next to slumbering Dorian, who sometimes didn’t rouse himself until nearly midday. Cullen had always thought it indulgent before their relationship escalated, but now he understood. Dorian stayed awake into the wee hours, sometimes almost until the sun came up, with his long nose in a book.

“Soup it is,” Dorian said with a nod, headed for the door.

“Wait,” Cullen called out. “I’d like a biscuit, too, if there are any.”

“A biscuit. How adventuresome of you. I’ll see what I can do.”

With that, he was out the door.

Cullen sipped his cider and watched the added log catch in the fireplace, entranced by the slow darkening of pale wood as flames tongued over the surface and began to consume it. In the depths of his mind, subconscious spaces unshackled from practicality, a crackling fire equaled a form of stasis. The sounds it made, pops and hisses, and the hot ash that drifted above, could belong to any fire at any time, anywhere in his life. He might be home in front of the wood stove, a small boy of five years, or he might be a young templar initiate up late studying in the common room. He lived in each memory as it came, like roaming a persistently changing landscape. One that moved past him more than he moved through it.

He’d been struggling with waking dreams since he took ill. More than once he’d thought he was walking the stone stairs of the circle tower only to wake in the infirmary, shaking, with Dorian’s palm on his forehead.

His reverie broke when a voice sounded along the ramparts.

“Fine, if you insist, for Cullen’s sake and Cullen’s sake alone.” That was Dorian, addressing someone, drawing nearer by the word. “But I’ll have you know that if you so much as look at a pair of my boots askance, your welcome will be summarily revoked.”

Ah, that was telling. Cullen knew who had come to call. The door opened a moment later and Turnip trotted in, all slobber and wagging rear end, claws clattering on the stone floor.

“Hello, dog,” Cullen said.

She plunked her enormous head on his lap and continued wagging, so he patted her and rubbed her ears.

“She wouldn’t be dissuaded,” Dorian told him. “You ought to feel very important, she followed me back here instead of lingering in the kitchens where they’re neck deep in ram meat.”

“Mabari are extraordinarily loyal beasts,” Cullen said, stroking the soft pink spot above Turnip’s nose. She licked his hand and then curled in a ball at his feet.  

“Or she’s already made her rounds there and it’s time to beg for _your_ dinner.” Dorian set a tray on the table next to Cullen’s chair. There was a steaming bowl of soup and a neat stack of biscuits, all of them buttered.

“Maker, I hope you’ve left some for everyone else.”

“Three biscuits out of three hundred will hardly be missed.” Dorian lifted the cider from his hands and nudged the tray toward him. “Eat, please. You’re looking a bit thin again and I won’t stand for it. I’d join you but I have business in the library—some meeting or other regarding our disappearing elven apostate. I have to admit, it’s been much darker in the rotunda since he left. That bald head of his did a good job reflecting light.”

Cullen snorted. “Go. Try not to...make light of it in front of the others,” he said.

“Don’t think I didn’t catch that little pun. Remind me to chastise you later, but for now,” he nudged the tray an inch nearer, “eat your soup. At least you’ve got your dog for company.”

“She’s hardly _my_ dog,” Cullen argued. She looked up at him when he said the word dog and wagged her tail.

“Cullen, you’re often wrong, but rarely are you as wrong as you are right now. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

And he was gone again.

Cullen ate his soup, and managed two and a half biscuits. The last half went to Turnip, who may have swallowed it whole. Sometimes it was difficult to tell, given the gargantuan size of her mouth.

Afterward, he lit a few candles and continued reading about pickling until his eyes practically felt pickled. Soon enough, they began drifting closed of their own volition, and when that started to happen it was time to retire to bed. He proceeded through his evening rituals, cleansing and otherwise, and let the dog out so she could move on to someone else for the night, as she sometimes did. However, as soon as he’d changed into his nightclothes, there was a whining and scratching at the door, and Turnip would not be denied. She must’ve simply run down to the courtyard to relieve herself and then returned.

Permitted reentrance, she hopped up on the foot of the bed and made herself comfortable.

“Dorian won’t be pleased,” Cullen said with a shake of the head. Turnip blinked up at him with soft eyes, so he sighed and climbed into bed without ousting her.

Then, he slept.

The sound of the door and a billow of chill air stirred him sometime later, though it was the press of a second warm body against his back that made him open his eyes.

“Forgive me,” Dorian whispered. He left a kiss on the side of Cullen’s neck. “Go back to sleep.”

Cullen nuzzled into the pillow and took a deep breath. “Is it late?”

“By my standard? No. By your standard, extremely.”

“How was the meeting?”

“Futile. I’m not entirely clear on why we held a meeting in the first place, considering nobody has any new information. The departure of our Fade-obsessed friend remains as mysterious as ever.” The tip of Dorian’s nose pressed into the base of Cullen’s skull. “No matter. I’m half convinced that Josephine was itching for a bit of action but thought it too soon for another party. Gauche, to throw too many in a row, you see. Therefore, a meeting instead. With wine and cheese. I’m to tell you your presence is sorely missed.”

Cullen felt he’d done more than his share of standing awkwardly alone at gatherings in the recent past, and thanked the Maker that his illness had excused him, but the remark jostled something in his head that he’d been meaning to tell Dorian.

“I spoke with the surgeon, yesterday,” he said.

Dorian tensed. “Oh?” His fingers slid up Cullen’s front to settle against his chest. “And?”  

“They had suggestions, regarding my poor health. I’m...uncertain what to make of them.”

“Well. If you’d like a completely unprofessional second opinion, I’m happy to advise,” Dorian said. “Of course the quality of the advice will be debatable, since I’m no healer and don’t pretend to be, but the offer stands.”  

Cullen turned onto his back. He glanced at Dorian, then stared up at the ceiling. “They’ve concluded it would benefit me to move to a lower elevation, since the air at this altitude is notoriously thin. It’s liable to be contributing to the seriousness of the infection. Somewhere warmer was advised. Apparently this illness, once contracted, has a tendency to recur even well after it seems beaten.”

Dorian’s fingers curled, loose, in the front of Cullen’s nightshirt. “I see.” He shifted his hips on the mattress, moving closer. “So by their recommendation, you should leave Skyhold?”

“Yes.”

“And...your post?”

Commander. General, leader, ex-templar and grouchy training officer. A quiet, awkward man when the armor came off, and now little more than an aging knight with bad lungs.

“They recommend I leave my post as well. Perhaps not permanently, but for the foreseeable future. There’s good reason to think that the stress may have been too grave a strain on my system, which was previously compromised due to—Due to the lyrium withdrawal. Were I still a templar, were I still taking it, perhaps all this would not have taxed me so greatly...”

Dorian’s fingers grazed his cheek, stroking the stubble that had, frankly, become more of a beard. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have, but judging by how strongly you felt at the time, it would’ve been the wrong decision to keep taking it. Don’t doubt yourself now, Cullen. What would Cassandra say if she heard this sort of talk? You’d be getting an earful of disgusted scoffing. Ugh, ugh!” Dorian mimicked.

Cullen laughed and turned his nose into Dorian’s chest. “You’re right. I should not doubt myself. Still, it was...not an easy thing to hear.”

“No, I can’t imagine it would be.” Dorian adjusted his pillow so he could lean higher. “Do you agree with the assessment?”

They both fell silent. In the fireplace, one of the logs creaked and settled. Turnip grunted and shuffled her feet.

“I do,” Cullen said. Getting the words off his tongue was hard work. His reluctance choked him. It was so palpable he could practically chew it, and sometimes he ground his teeth in the night trying, but he did agree. “The Inquisition has succeeded its initial purpose. The breach is sealed, and the biggest threat to our continued existence is dealt with. Soon we shall have a new Divine, and there will be more reforms to come. Varric has gone, and Cassandra may not remain much longer. It could be that my time here draws to a close as well.”

“Where will you go?” Dorian asked, his voice soft.

“I’m not certain, but I’ve been investigating some property in...in Orlais.”

“Orlais?” Dorian’s palm flew to Cullen’s forehead. “Maker, you must be dying.”

“I know, I know, it sounds crazy.”

“Darling, need I remind you that Orlais is full of Orlesians?”

“An unfortunate reality, but... Orlesians aside, it’s a more hospitable climate. Arid.”

“That’s true. Wine country.” Dorian removed his palm and settled back down. “Pleasant, but I’m unsure it’s enough to recommend it.”

“There’s one spot in particular that’s captured my attention. It’s an acreage, currently uninhabited and in disrepair, but I’m told it would take only a season’s effort to restore it to a serviceable state.”

“An acreage? Were you anyone else I’d presume a villa, but in your case acreage means farm, doesn’t it.” Dorian clicked his tongue. “Amatus, you do know that farming is hard labour, yes? Morning ‘til night. A touch more demanding than standing about ordering soldiers to hit things for you.”

Cullen gave a little snort. “It’s reassuring to know you think so highly of my current work,” he said. “We would hire hands, obviously. I know I overextend myself, but attempting to run an active farm alone... I’m not quite that foolish.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

It was half-teasing, half truth, and it made Cullen chuckle.

“Hold on,” Dorian splayed his fingers on Cullen’s chest. “Did you say _we_?”

“Uh,” Cullen cleared his throat. “I suppose I did. I got ahead of myself. Forgive me.”

“Despicable,” Dorian started, “including me, your lover of—how many months is it now?”

“Well Over a year.”

“Has it been over a year already? Maker’s breath, as you say. As _I_ was saying, how dare you include me in your plans? Such presumption. I’ll never forgive you.” He kissed Cullen’s forehead and his mustache tickled, as it always did.

Cullen turned so he was facing Dorian. “The acreage is not far from Val Royeaux. A few day’s travel. And the journey to Tevinter from there is...long, but at least you can go by land the whole way. I thought if we were close to the city, then... I wouldn’t feel so badly about asking a beautiful bird to live in a dingy little cage.”

Dorian laughed. “I would complain, but I would endure. Truthfully, I approve of any plan of yours that doesn’t involve falling unspeakably ill and dying. You’ve had a go at that already and I’ve decided I can’t support it. So, if we must, to keep you from pursuing that end, live together on some muddy plot of land in a town too small to name while you pickle every vegetable you can get your hands on, then so be it.”

“How very noble of you,” Cullen whispered, “to do that for me.”

“Fine, yes, I’m an incorrigible romantic, but so are you and like attracts like. Just don’t tell anyone or I’ll be forced to instigate an ugly fight with you in public to restore my reputation.”

Cullen started to laugh, and then he started to cough, and then Dorian was shushing him and rubbing his back.

“Don’t laugh, it’s not that funny. Certainly not worth dying for. I mean, _I’m_ worth dying for, but this context won’t do. There’s nothing heroic about it.”

Once his eyes stopped watering and he could breathe again, Cullen put a hand on Dorian’s side. There was something he’d been planning for ages, since before their very first falling out which, thank the Maker, they had managed to move past with minimal damage done after a few afternoons of rankled stewing by both of them. Cullen still owed Cassandra proper thanks for her intervention.

“Would you reach me my pill box?” he asked.

Dorian leaned away and searched on the bedside table for it. “Voila.” He passed it to Cullen.

It was a tiny, thrashed tin with a tricky fastener, and it had been among Cullen’s personal effects for so long that he’d forgotten where it came from. He opened it, then fished out a velvet pouch, the contents of which he emptied into his hand before closing his fist. “Here,” he said to Dorian.

“Here what?” Dorian asked, reaching for it.

Cullen let the ring drop into the center of Dorian’s palm.

“I know the last time we discussed marriage we never agreed to anything. Our fates were uncertain, and we’d just quarreled quite badly. I believe I told you that if you felt you must return to Tevinter, I would wait for you—years, if need be—but I also recall you being angry that I had no ring to give you, so...” He cleared his throat. “I’ve gotten you one.”

Dorian propped himself up on an elbow. He was staring at the ring, turning it about between his thumb and forefinger with great interest, jaw slightly agape.

“This is... It’s Jean-Paul Durant’s work.”

“I had it commissioned.”

“Commissioned? _Fasta vass_ , you... You had this made for me?”

Cullen lifted himself up to lean on his elbows. “Josephine was kind enough to suggest a jeweler and offer her eye on the design. She knew your size since she’s been receiving your shipments for months.”

“Cullen, I...” Dorian held the ring up to one of the larger candles, still turning it. “I’m...”

“Speechless. I see that.” Cullen swallowed again. His throat had gone tight and a bead of sweat was forming at his temple. “What I can’t tell is if it’s good speechless, or bad.”

Dorian said nothing. Thirty seconds, then a minute went by. Maybe longer. The last of the fire popped and hissed behind the grate a few feet away. Cullen coughed gently.

“You know,” Dorian began, “the weather won’t be suitable for a wedding until high summer; otherwise it will be snow or rain and mud traipsed in by every guest. Where would we even have a ceremony? You’re talking about leaving Skyhold, all our friends are scattered to the winds, and there’s no way we’ll be able to get proper cut flowers and Turnip will eat them anyway!”

At the sound of her name, Turnip raised her head. Ever attentive. Cullen reached down to pat her. “You probably would, wouldn’t you,” he said. Her nubby tail wagged in answer.

Dorian sat up in bed. “There’s a type of orchid that only grows on the outskirts of Qarinus, and on your wedding day you’re meant to exchange it with...” He shook his head, waved a hand as if clearing a spiderweb. “But nevermind my traditions, what of _your_ traditions? Maker, you’ll want a proper chantry wedding, won’t you, faithful soul that you are. With the white everything and a stiff revered mother reading scriptures about loyalty and devotion. Do they even allow men to marry here? Is that even done?”

“Dorian...”

“No, really! Would anyone recognize the union? What about afterward, would we be in danger if our neighbors found out? What’s the average Ferelden’s opinion on these delicate matters?”

Cullen put a hand on Dorian’s back. “The average Ferelden considers it nobody’s business except those who are involved, and the Orlesians don’t give a damn, which...is another reason I thought Orlais might suit us. Either way, you needn’t worry about that.”  

“I do worry. And you should, too. What would people say? It’s one thing to sleep with the evil Tevinter magister, but to _marry_ him? _You’ve gone too far_ , they’ll say, _he’s perverted your mind_.”

With a huff, Cullen collapsed down onto his back. “If you’re not ready, you can say no. It will break my heart somewhat, but I was prepared for such a possibility.”

“What? Say no, I...” He stiffened in place, frustration pinched between his perfect brows. “How can I say anything when you still haven’t properly asked me!”

“Did... Didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t!” Dorian set the ring pointedly on Cullen’s chest with a smack.

Cullen collected it, then sat up. He settled on his knees and gently gripped Dorian by the palm.

“Dorian, I’d be honored if...” He paused to take a breath. “Would you, um... I’d very much like it if—if you would do me the honor of accepting my hand?”

The tiniest smile curled the corners of Dorian’s lips in the firelight. His eyebrows knit on his forehead. “We’re fools to even entertain the notion,” he said, “but...yes.”  

That word was all the warmth Cullen would ever need. He slipped the ring onto Dorian’s finger: a perfect fit.

Dorian opened his arms and they fell against one another. “Of course I will, you oaf.”

“And the ring, is it…to your tastes?”

“It’s beautiful. I love it almost as much as I...” Dorian stopped. “I won’t say that, I’ll spare us the syrup. Does this mean that Josephine has known all this time what you’ve been planning?”

Cullen nodded against Dorian’s shoulder. “Remind me to send her a box of sweets, in thanks.”

“Incredible. She really doesn’t have a single tell. Which you learned the hard way.”

“A cold, hard lesson, yes, but,” Cullen shrugged. “I also learned I could trust her with a secret.”  

Dorian laughed, and Cullen felt it in his chest, the vibration in muscle and bone. “Come to think of it,” Dorian murmured, “that was the first time I saw you naked, and it took me quite a long while to see you that naked again.”

Pink heat deepened on Cullen’s cheeks. “Well, I’m yours to keep, now.”

Dorian stilled. “Wait. Wait, I don’t have anything for you.”

“That’s all right, I don’t—

“No, no, hold on. It must be an exchange.” Dorian let him go and wriggled out of bed, grabbing a candle and heading for his dresser. He opened a small box on top of it and began rifling. “Now where did I... Surely it’s not... Ah!” He returned and knelt on the edge of the mattress, gesturing for Cullen to come closer. “Your hand please, Commander.”

Cullen extended it, and Dorian fitted him with a ring. Flat cut blue stone surrounding a pale gem at the center. It sat on his finger as though it had always been there, and it reminded him of something he couldn’t place. A window overlooking a memory of a memory. Like the crackling fire, it transcended physical constraints and existed somewhere outside of time.

“There,” Dorian hushed. “I knew that was the right one.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said. He meant it, profoundly.  

They both stared at one another in helpless adoration for a few moments before Dorian finally scoffed and toppled them back under the covers, where they curled tightly around one another. Dorian might’ve cried a little, and Cullen said nothing about it. He simply bumped their noses together until the nudge turned into a kiss.    

 


End file.
